


Fuck Violinists

by DragonBandit



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Twitter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-07-02 12:02:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15796137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonBandit/pseuds/DragonBandit
Summary: The Atypicals are finally going on tour to promote their new album. Everything would be perfect, if it weren’t for the fact that the opening group for every single show is none other than Mindwalker. AKA: the band consisting of Damien and the one human on earth who hasn’t realised what a terrible person he is.Suffice to say: Fuck Violinists.Meanwhile: Mark’s hooking up with a cute guy who tells Mark to call him Robert.fuck violinists





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to BalloonWhisk for working out work skins for me!
> 
> So this fic is seriously back-burner, write when I’m inspired kind of fic. Not to be blatant, but the best way to inspire me to write more is to comment. To tell me that you’re interested in it. 
> 
> Fic idea from the DamiMark discord. 
> 
> Thanks to [Clementinedyke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clementinedyke/pseuds/clementinedyke) and [kittleimp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittleimp) for betaing.

 

**Atypicals** @AtypicalOfficial:  
  
Hey everyone! As you’ve probably already guessed from some very…suspicious tweets from certain band members (Looking at you  @MarkB) we’ve got some important news to share with you all! Atypicals are going on tour again! More information on our website: https://bit.ly/2JKrCZO

 **Atypicals** @AtypicalOfficial:  
  
But bigger news than our tour, yes there can be bigger news than that, really, I’m as surprised as you, is the fact that we’re releasing a new album! Announcing Stay Strange, featuring all new songs and the first ever recording of Green, before now only heard during our live shows

 **Atypicals** @AtypicalOfficial:  
  
Again, go to our website for more news on that and our upcoming concerts. We really could not have done this without you. I can’t wait to see all of you in person on tour!

 **I would die for Mark Bryant** @Cinerpai  
OMG  #StayStrange #AtypicalsTour2k18

 **I would die for Mark Bryant** @Cinerpai  
Unfollow me now this is all I’m going to talk about for the next year. I’m so excited I’ve been waiting for LITERAL YEARS for them to visit my state OMFG  #AtypicalsTour2K18 wpahipwiahgpeihuewag[aowfj

 **I need sleep** @Meier  
Wait isn’t Green that song Caleb wrote? The one and only song Caleb sings? The really fucking sappy love song?

 **Lady 💚 Ara** @LadyAra  
@Meier It is! Though wrote is a strong word it has @MarkB’s hands all over it.

 **Lady 💚 Ara** @LadyAra  
@Meier Not that that at all lessens how cute it is I got to see them perform it last year and god the way the arena goes quiet when Caleb gets up from the drumset to take the mic is just. Wow. 😍 #CalebandAdamaredating

 **Lady 💚 Ara** @LadyAra  
Honestly I can’t believe it took  @AtypicalsOfficial so long to release an official version of Green considering how many bootlegs I have and listen to obsessively. #CalebandAdamaredating

 **Ekedence** @Ekedence  
So… was looking forward to  #AtypicalsTour2k18 until I saw who’s going to open for them… again.

 **Patient E 21 💡** @Alistion  
@Ekedence What again? Didn’t they learn from last time?

 **Ekedence** @Ekedence  
@Alistion You would fucking think so, but That Name is sullying the Atypical’s webpage again.

 **Calliope** @Starsinhereyes  
@Alistion @Ekedence Hi I’m new here. What’s so wrong with Mindwalker I’ve heard their songs on youtube and they’re not bad?

 **Ekedence** @Ekedence  
@Starsinhereyes It’s not Mindwalker’s music I have a problem with. It’s the fact that their fans are the literal worst to be around.

 **Ekedence** @Ekedence  
@Starsinhereyes and that’s not even mentioning the fact that it’s a well known fact that the main face of that band is… well… A complete and utter asshole would be being too soft.

 

Backstage, in the tiny closet that counts as a green room, the Atypical’s get ready for yet another show on their tour.

Mark sits on the floor cross legged, with his guitar cradled between his hands. He plucks through chords, squinting at the guitar tabs he’s scrawled out in the notebook in front of him. Adam is a mirror next to him, finger pointing out one line in particular.

“So we’re going A, then C, then A again.” Adam says, glancing up at Mark. “Then there’s Sam’s piano solo and the main chorus.”

“And the next riff is the same chords but with a different time signature,” Mark says with a nod. He plucks it out, electric guitar quiet without its amp.

Adam watches his fingers for a bit before slowly matching him. It doesn’t take him long to catch up, and then to modify and change the rhythm slightly. Mark grins, recognising the game and swiftly shifts his fingers to switch to Adam’s melody before upping the ante further. Nervous energy spins some of the notes sharp, before Mark corrects for it.

In ten minutes the concert starts. Forty-five minutes after that, they’ll be on stage. Mark has been doing this since he was twenty, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this part of the concert. The rest of it is fine: The set up beforehand, balancing the dynamics with a new space, the rehearsal where someone, always, forgets a crucial note in exactly the wrong spot. He’s even used to Sam’s mutters over her own sheet music, and Chloe’s frantic bouncing between every member of the band with a running conversation that includes every topic under the sun.

Of course, once they get on stage everything will be perfect and amazing and exactly what Mark lives for, but right now Mark has to deal with the coiled pressure around him of _waiting_ for things to happen. Well, that and the other thing.

He picks up another one of Adam’s rhythms, this one a soft swing that twangs out in a jaunty little melody. And–oh, he recognises this one. This is Adam’s part for one of their older songs: Empath.  

Mark grins at him, “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got.” He keeps to Adam’s line, repeating the first riff again and again, until Adam’s eyes go wide.

“Uh, you’re sure? You want me to take over your part?”

“Yeah, why not? This is just messing around anyway. Give it a try.”

Adam’s bottom lip goes between his teeth. Mark gives him another encouraging nod, embellishing the riff for a bar or two before going back to the simple melody of back up guitar. It takes another repetition for Adam to diverge, shifting his hand up the neck to play the higher, and faster, counterpart melody that belongs to Mark on stage.

Not the most complicated thing in the world, but definitely a grade or two up from Adam’s usual parts. He’s doing a great job though. Yeah, the notes aren’t quite as clear as they need to be, or as technically refined, but the kids using memory and deduction to place the right notes here. He deserves a lot of slack right now.

Mark gives him another encouraging nod, completely lost on Adam, who’s staring at the neck of his guitar. Mark switches to a more complicated rhythm, still technically the backing guitar part just with a few more bells and whistles.

Adam glances up at him, gives him a grin, and starts deviating from the written lead guitar. It’s good, good in that way that makes Mark want to write some of the changes down. He’s been getting that feeling a lot more with Adam recently. It’s probably about time Mark started working on some new songs.

For now though, he keeps strumming his backup guitar, letting Adam turn Empath into something new.

“You’re flat,” Mark hears directly over his shoulder.

His eyes close, still strumming the his melody even as Adam falters. “Hello, to you too, Damien. Go back to the other side of the room where you belong. Now.”

“You’re not listening to me.” Damien says, “Your tuning is off; You’re flat.”

Great. Just _once_ Mark would like to not have to deal with this before a show.

“That’s none of your business,” he says.

“You made it my business when you started playing. Look, just give me the guitar I can fix it.”

“No.” Mark doesn’t bother to look up at him. Looking at Damien is just trouble. Trouble that Mark does not need right now.

“Give it to me.”

“Go away, Damien.”

Mark opens his eyes just in time to see Damien’s hand reach over his head to grab the neck of his guitar. He flinches backwards, rolling forwards again when his back hits Damien’s legs. Adam scrambles out of the way, grabbing the notebook and snapping the contents shut as he stands. Mark turns on the balls of his feet, twisting in a half circle as he gets up.

“What the fuck was that?” He demands.

Damien’s hand is still outstretched, reaching towards Mark. It drops, thumb hooking into the pocket of leather trousers that look like they could have been painted on. Mark forces himself to look at Damien’s face. Oh he’s really wearing gold eyeliner. That’s–well that’s something. Really brings out the dark black circles of Damien’s eyes. The lower half of his face is partially obscured by a cloth mask, right now pulled low so it hangs down around his neck. Just visible above that black fabric is a vicious scowl.

“I told you. You’re flat.”

“So that gives you the right to grab my instrument.” Mark says, incredulous.

“I could fix it.” Damien repeats. “You can’t, you don’t have perfect pitch.”

“Oh, and you do.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Mark can feel his hackles rising. He grits his teeth and counts backwards from ten. Slowly.

“Okay.” He says, once he’s done. Now hyper-aware of everyone else in the room staring at him. “That still doesn’t mean you can just take my guitar whenever you please.”

“But I--”

“God, Damien!” Sam calls from the other side of the room. “Are you at all listening to the conversation that’s happening here?” She stalks towards the two of them–Adam’s already retreated to the safety of Caleb’s arms. Good call, Mark wishes he could do the same. “You don’t just touch our stuff. How would you like it if I touched your violin without asking?”

“You wouldn’t.” Damien practically snarls.

Mark laughs, as Sam snarls back, “That’s exactly the point. You do realise that don’t you? How do you not get this?”

“That’s different.”

“No it isn’t!”

Damien bristles. In response, Mark puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder. Last time they got in a fight, Sam ended up with bruised knuckles, and Damien’s mask hid a bloody nose from the audience.

“He’s not worth it,” Mark mutters under his breath. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Damien flinch.

Sam nods tightly, but she’s still glaring knives into Damien over Mark’s shoulder. Mark suspects the entire band is. He knows that the only reason he isn’t as well is because he refuses to look Damien directly in the face. Instead it’s caught somewhere between the wall and the little LED lights that flicker red and yellow in Damien’s brown hair.

“Ok, I see how it is,” Damien says, a low, unaffected drawl. “I’ll look forward to the show reviews where you get slammed for sounding like shit.”

Mark gapes at him, a response on the tip of his tongue, when Rose barges through the door of the tiny back room.

Like Damien, Rose looks like she’s ready to visit some goth rave. Fishnet shirt and tights over sparkly leggings and a tight black shirt that might have once been a match to Mark’s own faded MCR shirt before someone went at it with a pair of scissors. The lower half of her face is covered in a white mask, a grinning skeleton smile painted on it in glittering paint. More glitter continues up to frame her narrowed brown eyes.

“Damien! You were meant to be onstage ages ago, come on!”

Damien throws one last scowl in Mark’s direction and then looks over at Rose.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” He pulls his own mask up over his mouth and nose, revealing the design. It’s a match to Roses: Glitter skull teeth, except Damien’s is white against black fabric. “Bye, Atypicals.” He doesn’t wait for a response before he strides off.

“Good riddance,” Sam says, as soon as the door closes behind the duo.

“Yeah,” Mark can’t help but agree. He plucks the strings of his guitar, one at a time. The G rings out horribly flat. Mark winces. He’ll fix it before they get on stage, when he can match it to Sam’s keyboard.

He looks back at the rest of the band. Caleb and Adam in one corner, talking between themselves Chloe in front of them, tilted towards the door but joining in with their conversation. Joanie’s already in the audience, or more likely back at the hotel. Nothing to worry about.

“So,” Mark says, after a few minutes.

Sam rolls her eyes, “Seriously? Even after all that? You’re really going to go up there and watch?”

“Yeah.” Mark gives her a smile, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before our set.” He leaves before Sam can talk him out of it. He always leaves before Sam can talk him out of it.

Backstage here is directly under the stage, and outside of the little padded cell that makes up the green room, Mark can hear the thump of feet travelling over wood, the hum of amps waiting to be used, even the crowd gathered around the stage if he tries hard enough. He takes the long way round so he’ll be at the back of the theater, behind the audience, instead of lurking in the wings.

The stage is still dark when Mark gets there. He leans against the wall by the stage doors. A few fans give him interested looks, and Mark has to wave off a couple with the patented smile and wink that Joanie bemoans is able to get him out of everything. A point to the stage as the house lights dim removes all but the most fanatical of the stares.  

For a moment everything is quiet, stage dark, anticipation thrumming through the crowded room. Then--

The spotlight on Damien, center stage, throws the floor below him a vibrant, lurid, red. It matches his violin: electric, the body a deep red S-shape bisected by the neck held in Damien’s left hand. The lead trails behind him and Mark wonders, not for the first time, how Damien manages to move around the stage as he does without tangling himself in the wires or tripping. Especially considering he wears platforms that grant him a good three or four inches of extra height.

On stage Damien tilts his whole body into a backwards arc, playing out one long sustained note on the violin that reverberates around the room. The black tank top he wears under the mesh shirt rides up, revealing a thin strip of skin between it and the leather pants.

His foot shifts, hitting the concealed pedal that Mark only knows exists because he’s seen Damien and Rose set up so many times on other stages. When Damien’s bow moves through a slow, languid scale the first note continues to play on a loop.

The notes get higher, faster, more energy in every note. Damiens body follows the same tempo: moving across the stage in long strides, spotlight on him the whole time, shifting colours from red to white and back again.

Then, when Marks ears are protesting at how fucking high Damien is going up this scale, everything stops. The lights, the sound, Damien himself is a statue, just visible in the darkness, a few spots of red in an otherwise black stage.  

Mark holds his breath in the sudden absence. It feels like if he moves an inch something in the space will shatter.

And then the bass drops.

The entire stage lights up brilliant white. The spotlight centers now on Rose, standing at two keyboards set at right angles to each other. She salutes the audience before bringing her hands down, hard. Drawing out a frenetic melody from the keys that Damien brings a counter to with the ease of someone who has done this a thousand times before.

Just looking at them, you wouldn’t think that they were playing music so complex that gives Mark a headache when he tries to pick it apart. But that’s not what he’s here to do, and he doesn’t bother to try.

Under the anonymity of being one face in the crowd, Mark drinks in the sight of Damien’s hips rolling without bothering to censor himself.

He lets his eyes trace the sinuous lines of Damien’s body as it moves across the stage, perfectly in time with the thumping bass. The play of glitter across Damien’s brown skin. The way the light highlights every curve trapped in those tight leather trousers.

Mark leaves halfway through the last song. He’s already tempted fate enough by staying this long.

When he gets back to the tiny closet backstage, Sam gives him an amused, long suffering, smile. “Good show?”

Mark doesn’t meet her eyes when he shrugs back. “There is a reason they open for us.”

“Don’t remind me,” Sam says in the same undertone. Louder, she says. “Come on, time to show off to your adoring fans.”

Mark laughs, “Don’t you mean your adoring fans?”

She shudders, “Oh, did you have to bring up that there are people actually watching the show for me? I don’t think I can take the pressure. I should be used to performing in front of people by now, shouldn’t I? Why do I always get the jitters before we go up? Everything’s okay up there, isn’t it? You’re in tune?” She lifts her head, breathing just a touch too fast, when Mark looks for it. “Is everyone in tune?”

Chloe and Adam chorus an affirmative, while Caleb spins one of his drumsticks. Mark shares a fond smile with Chloe. They’ve both gotten used to Sam’s last minute ramble. “I’ll take this,” he mouths at the other three, “Go set up.”

Chloe nods, turning to the door.

Mark takes Sam’s shoulders in his hands, smiling down the six inches of height that separates them. He can feel her shaking with pre-show jitters and generalised anxiety.  

“Hey,” he says, quiet. “You’re fantastic.”  

He watches as Sam’s eyes close. She takes a deep breath, holding it for a second or two before slowly releasing it. She inhales again, as deep as the first, repeating the cycle. Mark rubs his thumbs lightly against her collarbone, matching her breathing.

“Okay.” Sam says, after a minute or two, “I’m okay. I’ve got this.” She gives him a smile. “And, I know _you’re_ not in tune, Mister, so let’s get moving before Adam steals lead guitar from you.”

Mark fakes an outraged gasp, “He wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know, he’s getting pretty good.” Sam bumps their shoulders together.

By the time they make it to the stage, both of them are muffling laughter behind twin grins. Even the sight of Damien and Rose waiting by the wings, doesn’t dampen Mark’s smile.

“You know,” Mark says, conversational as he passes them by. “You really should stay and watch, just once.”

He doesn’t need to see the twin eye roll to know it’s there.

“Maybe next time.” Mark says for the two of them.

He joins the rest of the band on stage, crowds around Sam for final tuning, and then takes his place dead center. Caleb at his back, Chloe and Sam to his left, and Adam to his right. He plugs his guitar into the amp, hearing the feedback of the rest of the band following. The house lights are already out. Mark can’t see the audience, but he can hear the murmurs, the shuffling, the weight of anticipation.

Everything settles inside him.

“Ready?” Mark whispers, into the quiet, pregnant silence.

“Ready,” Chloe says, speaking for Adam’s nod, Caleb’s smile, and Sam’s fingers hovering over her keys.

“Then here we go.”

The stage lights up, into the brilliant white of the spotlight, Mark grins. And strums the opening chord.

 

* * *

 

Damien scrubs harshly at his makeup. Glitter comes off in thick gold streaks, first onto  his skin, then the makeup wipe when he makes another pass at it. He toes out of his shoes, dropping him down three inches of height as he replaces them for comfortable sneakers. Baggy jeans over the leather trousers; he doesn’t have the time to peel them off his legs. Old hoodie pulled over the mesh shirt. Mask off, stuffed in his violin case next to his rosin and cleaning rag. He takes out the coloured contacts, putting them back in their cleaning fluid cases and nestling them against his mask and cleaning rag.

In total, it takes him ten minutes to get out of the costume. It’s ten minutes too long.

Rose has her back turned to him, ostensibly keeping watch so no one walks in on Damien’s hurried changing. It’s all a lie of course; there are only two people who could get past security into this backroom, one of whom has made it clear that she won’t stay in the same room as Damien for longer than absolutely necessary. The  other already knows Damien’s secret.

Every show Damien tells Rose that she doesn’t need to stay. Every show, Rose rolls her eyes and helps him pull the LED highlight strips out of his hair.

He brushes past her to the door, muttering his thanks under his breath.

“I’ll see you back at the hotel,” Rose says with the implicit warning that if Damien doesn’t show up, she’ll go out looking for him.

“I’ll be there as soon as the show’s over,” Damen promises and then he’s out the door, running down narrows hallways, past security, and through the side door that allows him to slide unnoticed into the middle of the crowded audience  

On stage the Atypicals are playing one of their newest songs: Stay Strange. It’s the titular hit single from their new album. The speakers blare out a walking bass beat surrounded by the trio of piano and two guitars. Over the entwined rhythm, Mark sings out about how everyone has their little quirks, and there is no normal, and how that brings connection in the strangest places.

The crowd around Damien sways with the music. Some of the more devoted fans are shouting the lyrics back up at the stage, even though not a single one of them is in tune.

Damien fixes his eyes up on the stage. He wraps his arms around himself, cold in the crowded space. Surrounded by a sea of nameless faces, he feels completely and utterly alone.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed. Any mistakes are my own.
> 
> HTML under construction

 

**I cant even** @Tickerlike  
Friendly reminder! Don’t support @MarkB’s music! He’s a contract breaker, doesn’t give a shit about his fanbase and is hell to work with!

Zero @Bestzero  
@Tickerlike Are you fucking kidding me.

Cassie @Gigantique  
Lol I think @MarkB was drunk during his interview with Kerrang. [attached picture]

Cassie @Gigantique  
Like the guy can drink whatever he’s an adult but loooooool

Joan sighs, exasperated at Mark’s side, as she pulls him away from a group of people heading in the opposite direction. “Mark, please look where you’re going.”

“I’m looking,” Mark protests. He glances up briefly from his phone to give Joan a winning smile before his eyes once again are drawn down to his Twitter notifications. He tries to keep out of social media most days, but today he can’t keep his eyes away from the devil blue website.

As opposed to the other devil blue website, which Adam has informed him is mostly cartoon pictures of Mark in increasingly unlikely and occasionally impossible sexual acts with other members of the band. Twitter, at least, just tends to just fill his mentions with the usual bitchiness and open adoration.

Most of it right now is people bitching at him.

 

**I cant even** @Tickerlike  
@Bestzero Do you not know the discourse that happened after @MarkB left @TheAM? Like there are artists that are still being ripped off because of him.

 **Zero** @Bestzero  
@Tickerlike Google AM Contract Violations. Bryant & Barnes VS Wadsworth. And stop bringing up this shit. It was old news three years ago, all you’re doing is spreading fake news.

“Mark, seriously.”

“I’m--” The hand on his elbow tightens, and Mark hears the screech of tires against concrete, and then a bicycle bell as someone yells at him to “get off the fucking road!”

“That one’s not my fault.” Mark says, not even looking up as he pushes Caleb’s hand away from his shoulder.

 

**Zero** @Bestzero  
@Tickerlike Also all the money Bryant makes from his old music goes straight to PFLAG and other LGBT charities. He doesn’t see a penny of profit.

 **Zero** @Bestzero  
@Tickerlike Exactly as the terms of his contract state.

Joan demands, ”What could possibly be so important?”

”The AMs been teasing a big announcement since Monday,” Caleb offers when Mark just shrugs.

Joan continues, “Yes, I saw the cryptic announcements the same as anyone else. But that’s not why you can’t look away from your phone, is it Mark?”

Mark can feel her trying to peer over his shoulder. He hates how crowded in he feels as she does it, hunching his shoulders as he scrolls past another couple of bad selfies that feature drunk fans and a drunker him. God, why does no one ever tell him his hair looks so stupid until he gets off camera? It’s not fair.

 

**AM** @AmazingMusic  
  
SOON #watchthisspace

“How would we even know? It’s not like they bother to tell us anything before making it official.” Mark says, furiously tapping his phone screen to unfollow whatever asshole put this on his timeline _again._

“Mark--”

“Oh come on Joan, If it weren’t for that fucking contract--”

“I know.” Joan says. There’s a pause as Joan takes the stop at a traffic light to really study Mark. He can feel her gaze on the back of his neck. A second later, a small hand is pulling the hand holding his phone down, away from his eyes. Mark’s forced to meet his sister’s narrow eyes. In Joan’s other hand she’s holding her credit card. “Why don’t you get us a couple of coffees at the Starbucks on the corner and meet us back at the hotel room?” she says, voice soft in a way that Mark kind of hates but is secretly and guiltily relieved to hear.

“Yeah, okay.”

Joan trades the card for his phone. “And I’m keeping this,” she says.

“Joanie!”

“You can have it back when you’ve gotten me a green tea.” Joan continues, tucking the phone in her jacket pocket.

“I want hot chocolate,” Chloe chimes in, “And you should get Sam a flat white, or as many shots of espresso as they’ll let you put in a cup. She was up all night coding again.”

Mark holds up his hands, “Hey, I was just going to get coffee,” He protests, but gives Chloe a smile when she sticks her tongue out at him. “Green tea, hot chocolate--”

“I want one too,” Caleb says.

“Two hot chocolates, as much caffeine they’ll let me put in a cup and…?” He turns to the last member of the band.

“I’ll take whatever caffeine Sam leaves,“ Adam says.

“That’s a sign you’ve been spending far too much time with her,” Mark says. “You’re getting a hot chocolate before you end up as short as she is.”

“A mocha,” Adam bargains, “I’m already taller than Sam anyway. Come on, I need the coffee. I was up all night too.”

“Doing what?” Joan asks, “I told the three of you lights out at eleven.”

Mark’s already walking away, not towards the coffee place Joan had indicated. As if he’s going to go to a Starbucks when he can see a perfectly good hole in the wall that looks like it’s been here since the dawn of time just a few more blocks away.

He hears Adam say, “The hotel bed felt like it was made out of rocks,” with the stammer that means that explanation is anything but the truth. A few steps later, and they’re out of both sight and hearing entirely. Without his phone to bury his nose in, Mark actually lifts his head to get a look around the city they’ve been staying in for the last two days. Yesterday had been the show, the day before he’d been sleeping off the inevitable travel sickness that comes from having an adventurous sense of taste.

Anyway after a while everything just kind of blends together into chain hotels and various tiny theaters and tinier stages.

The air at least is cleaner now that he’s able to appreciate it. It’s colder than he’s used to, the promise of frost staining the tip of Mark’s nose red. This bit of town is made for pedestrians, old buildings with a variety of storefronts facing out to the road that has no distinction from sidewalk.

The further Mark gets away from Joanie (and his phone) the better he gets.  A few people recognise him as he walks by. Hazard of being a moderately famous celebrity Mark supposes, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the sight of random people on the street covertly pointing at him and trying to take photos. If he felt in a more sociable mood, then Mark would be going up to them, taking the phone and getting a really nice picture for their instagram or twitter or tumblr or whatever the fuck the newest social medias the kids are using these days.

But right now Mark has a hangover pounding by his temples, and doesn’t feel very charitable towards people who say they love them to his face, and then bring up old history as soon as his back is turned. He does his best to ignore them, and wonders if he had ever considered that he would hate being in the spotlight when he was younger. Nah. Mark the attention seeker, that was him. Attention seeking so hard that he hadn’t been satisfied until the whole world knew his name.

Well, he’d gotten it. And look what good that had done for him.

He sighs when he finally reaches the little hole in the wall, called the Made @18 judging by the sign. The name is written in one of those weird styles that makes it look like a ransom note cut out of a bunch of magazines and newspapers. Now this is a place where Mark can guaranteed find a barista happy to give Mark recommendations when he asks for a surprise. Bonus points, unlike the Starbucks, this cafe isn’t already filled to the brim with people.

There’s someone playing the violin right in front of the window. He catches Mark’s eye as he heads to the door. A guy, eyes closed as he pulls the a bow over a polished, dark wooden violin. He’s sort of scruffy looking, ripped dark blue jeans and a tattered hoodie that’s covered in errant flecks of paint, curly hair falling over his face. Obviously all this guys money went into his instrument instead of his wardrobe. But his waist is narrow, and Mark’s sure that if he saw more of his face he wouldn’t find it unattractive.

It isn’t until Mark’s throwing a dollar into the open case at the guys feet that he realises that he recognises the song that’s being played. It’s been modified a bit—the real version’s a duet and needs two people to get it right—but the melody is unmistakably Stargazer. He pauses, head tilting to listen to the refrain. Mark wrote that song with Sam five years ago. When Mark was still under AM contract. The only way to get hold of it is to find the bandcamp account that Sam doesn’t list anymore that holds the total three albums that they had made before forming the Atypicals. It’s still up out of posterity, and because Sam is the biggest sap when it comes to archiving things.

Stargazer’s one of the main songs in the first album: 18:10. Called because that had been the time that Mark was free to talk to Sam, and Sam was free to talk to him. They’d lived on almost opposite sides of the country when they’d first started. Sometimes opposite sides of the world when Mark was touring.

If it weren’t for the closed eyes, and obvious way that the guys in his own world, Mark would wonder if he was playing it to show off. To show Mark what a good and loyal fan he is. Some of the other buskers Mark has met have tried that, and it never stops being weird and vaguely uncomfortable.

This though, this is kind of nice. It’s obvious that the busker hasn’t noticed Mark at all, and the violin gives the song a new energy. There’s the familiar longing threaded through every note, the way that Mark and Sam had always played the piece, grabbing at Mark’s heartstrings and forcing him to find the happiness hidden within the major chords. He has to dig a bit to find the happiness. Exactly the way Stargazer is meant to sound, and so far no one but Mark has seen that.  

He ends up leaning against the wall by the door of the cafe, listening to the sound of expertly played violin music.

_Watching the digits count down_

_Staring up in the dark_

Mark sings the last line, half to himself. “Wishing the stars I’m seeing weren’t our only connection.“

The guys eyes snap open, revealing a pale hazel that makes Mark’s stomach swoop with their intensity. The bow stills over the still humming strings. He’s looking straight at Mark. A question obvious in those eyes.

Mark smiles, there it is, that’s the moment where he’s been recognised as a famous person instead of a weird guy humming along to an indie song. “Good cover,”

“…Yeah.” The guy says. There’s a flicker of something across his face, there and gone again before those pale eyes turn away from Mark. The arm holding the bow swings down, violin tucking under the guys arm. “It’s a good song.”

“I couldn’t convince you to play it for a bit longer could I?”

The guy snorts, “Seriously?”

“Hey, you’re good,” Mark protests, “why shouldn’t I want you to play some more?”

“That’s not it. Do you realise how egotistical you sound asking me to play songs you wrote? I feel like you’ll grade me on how close I got to your original vision.”

Mark shrugs, giving the guy a winning smile, “The test’s on Thursday.”

The guy laughs, shaking his head. The sound curls around Mark’s spine.

“I’m Mark.” Mark says.

“I know.”

“Is that your way of telling me I don’t get a name back?”

The guy gives him a measured look, pale eyes narrowing as his lips tilt up in a smirk. “Call me Rob,” He offers, swinging the violin back onto his shoulder. His weight shifts slightly, feet moving into the familiar, one foot forward, one back and tilted to slightly sideways, stance of a string player. “Got any requests?”

“Yeah,” Mark says, feeling that voice wrap itself around him with a promise of something that Mark wants to hear more of. If that’s what he’s like playing Stargazer, what else has he got? “Play me something that’s yours.”

Rob falters, his bow arm tilting down. “You sure? Thought you wanted to hear more of your own stuff so you can lord it over the rest of us mere street performers that you’ve made it.”

Mark’s nose wrinkles, and this time the barb hits its target. “I don’t really come across like that do I?”

Rob shrugs, “Nah. I wouldn’t play your stuff if you really were as heartless as the AM keeps trying to sell. I know you better than that.”

Before Mark can think of a reply to _that._ Rob launches into a quick, whirling jig that sends his bow dancing across the violin strings fast enough that Mark’s worried the friction is going to set something alight. Rob smirks grows, reading something off of Mark’s face. Probably the sheer wonder. Before he closes his eyes, and loses himself completely in the music. Mark doesn’t mean to, but he’s always been a sucker for a pretty face, and with Rob’s eyes closed there’s practically an invitation to admire how the sunlight hits Rob’s dark hair, lighting the brown curls in red and gold. The sharp cheekbones under his brown skin. The proud nose that’s seen some action, and hadn’t set quite right.

And there are those hazel eyes again, peeking through Rob’s dark lashes, watching Mark back. The smirk grows.

Mark smiles, caught. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Don’t you have something better to do?” Rob says, in a tone that means the exact opposite of his words.

Mark exaggerates taking a look at his watch. “Not for another… fifteen minutes ago. Dammit.”

Rob snorts, amused. “Better get going,” Rob tells him. The fingers on the neck of his violin pick out the beginnings of another tune. Mark desperately wants to listen. God damn having a job he can’t afford to drop whenever he needs to.

“Rain check?” Mark asks. He’s already fumbling in his pockets for a pen, or one of the business cards that has his personal number on it. He finds the pen first, holding it up hopefully.

Rob shakes his head, but obligingly tucks his violin under his arm again and offers his hand for Mark to scrawl a messy set of digits on the back of it in the black marker.

Mark gives him another grin before he runs back to the hotel, and then turns abruptly back around, telling Rob, “I was meant to get coffee. I should really do that shouldn’t I.” as he goes into the store and muddles through the set of coffee orders he only half remembers now.

He leaves the shop humming Stargazer, throwing the last bit of his change into Rob’s open violin case.

* * *

Sam tugs at her sweater, for what must be the fifth time since Joan sprung “Surprise Party, mandatory attendance” at the band. “Do I look okay?” She asks, the painted design on the front of her chest lit up by the orange glow of the street lights. “I don’t look too weird or boring or out of place?”

“You look fine,” Mark reassures her.

“Okay.” Sam says. She breathes, to a familiar count of in-in-out-out that she’s told Mark is meant to help with the anxiety. “Are you absolutely sure that I look okay? Oh, I don’t know what I’m going to do there when we even get there. I’ve never been to a party before, not since I was six. I wasn’t friends with the people in highschool who did that sort of thing and college, well, that was… Yeah that something I decided I did not want to get involved with at all. I have a feeling that this isn’t going to be a party where I can get away with playing princesses and serving imaginary tea. How about I just go back to the hotel and you can just tell me all about it later.” She turns around on her heels as she says it, determined to march back the handful of blocks that separate the hotel from the location that Joan has programmed into her phone.

Mark snags her by the back of her collar. “Attendance mandatory, Sam.” he says, “come on, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Oh you know, one of the other guests might end up overdosing on something illegal which leads to the police being called and we all get arrested for being involved. Then of course the tabloids find out and our already tanked reputation goes all the way through the floor.”

“And the best thing that could happen?”

Sam gives him a betrayed look. “You know that tactic doesn’t work as well as you want it to.” But she obligingly turns back around and puts her hand in Mark’s.

“There’s really no need to worry, Sam.” Joan calls from the front of the group. Her nose is steadily buried in her phone. Mark wants to call hypocrisy, but there’s really no point bothering with Joan. “It’s not an official function, I doubt that there will even be a large social media presence save for personal blogs. We’re just here to make an appearance and see if we can get any networking done. Maybe find someone more reasonable to open for us the next time we’re in town.”

“I thought that Mindwalker opening for us was a contract thing,” Caleb says. He’s hand-in-hand with Adam, who nods in agreement.

“Contracts do eventually run out,” Joan says. “If we can just---”

“Can we not talk about work right now?” Mark interrupts, “why don’t we pretend that this is a normal party, that we’re going to because we’re normal people.”

“We have never been normal people,” Sam says, a smile playing about her lips.

“An even better reason to do it!”

Chloe, skipping between the beams of light casting down from the streetlights, asks, “Who invited us anyway? I don’t have any friends in this town, and I don’t remember anyone else mentioning anyone. So where did this come from?”

There’s a pause, as the group slowly turns their gaze to their manager. Their manager who is being suspiciously silent on the subject.

“Joooaaaaan,” Mark says, drawing out the vowels as far as he can.

Joan starts walking just a little bit faster. Not a good sign.

“Joan!”

Her head stays buried in her phone. “If you must know, Green was the one who told me about it.”

There’s a chorus of groans from the rest of the band.

“I thought we didn’t go to things run by the AM anymore,” Caleb says.

“We don’t.” Chloe, skirt flaring around her ankles as she spins to face Joan and the rest of the group, walking backwards. “It always goes wrong. Even if one of us doesn’t accidentally offend someone important, there’s always some person out to get Mark angry so they can make a bad video and put it on Youtube.”

“Hey,” Mark says, not at all meaning it.

“Then you’ll be pleased to know that while Green was the one who made the recommendation, he and the AM aren’t running this one.” She looks up from her phone, at all their dubious looks. “You’re always complaining that we never get to visit any of the other artists in the cities we play in! Here is a local, indie artist run event. Have fun, make some friends! And stop worrying about the AM, Green himself told me that the only person even affiliated with the label will be Rose.”

“Oh that’s different,” Chloe says.

“Is it?” Sam, once again smoothing down her sweater.

“I like Rose. She’s really nice when you forget who she works for.”

“It’s the working part that’s the problem,” Mark points out.

“I think we can steal her.” Chloe says. “Oh! Joan is this the right house? There’s lots of people inside already.”

Joan glances at her phone one last time. Her eyes narrowed at the little brickwork number that’s nestled tightly next to it’s neighbours. There’s the dull thump of bass the closer they get to the door, and all the windows are lit up gold-yellow. The skylight on the roof is open, steam or smoke spilling out into the cold night air. “This is indeed the place.”

Mark hears Sam’s muttered, “I want to die.”

He squeezes her hand reassuringly. “Hey, you never know. You might find a bunch of computer nerds in there.”

Sam gives him a patient, withering, look. “All the good computer nerds are at home, Mark. On the computer.”

“I bet you ten dollars I’ll find you some friends.”

“Save your money,” Sam says. She looks up at the fairy lights strung up around the windows and door of the house. She visibly steels herself, shoulders going back as she holds her head up high. The hand around Mark’s tightens to the point of near-pain. “Alright. Into the breach we go.”

* * *

Damien doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He knows _how_ he got here—Rose threatened him with monopoly of the radio and only playing The One Mixtape if he didn’t get off his ass and come visit her stupid friends at their asinine party with her. What he’s still doing here, a good ten minutes after Rose had ditched him for a girl with more facial piercings than she had fingers, Damien has no fucking clue.

He’s commandeered a corner to lean against in the semi-crowded room, nursing a beer that he has no intention of drinking, and looking down his nose at the other people who bothered to show up.

He doesn’t know any of them. Rose is the social butterfly, and the only friend that Damien’s managed to keep for more than a month. Most of the people here are disgustingly ordinary. Sure, a few of them fall into the categories of punks and whatevers that Rose is always chatting to online and posting pictures of with her and a stranger daubed in neon lights at some club or another. There’s none of that flashy lighting here, just the LED light bulb set to a weird blue that doesn’t do much to actually illuminate the main room of the poky house. Shame, since even with the dim lighting, Damien can still see clearly everything in the room that he hates. The light fixture that looks like it’s half art-piece half cthulhian horror. The chairs that promise that anyone who sits in them will never get out again. The wallpaper that clashes with the curtains. Not to mention all the people filling up every inch and the rich smell of wine mixing with the more paint-stripper odour of cheap vodka.

The music is awful too. Some top 40’s pop station that keeps regurgitating a ditzy medley about the joys of going down on the singers boyfriend. Isn’t the whole point of these gigs to find people who have better taste than this?

He should just go back to the hotel. He’s been here fifteen minutes. That’s enough to satisfy Rose, surely.

With that in mind, Damien removes himself from his corner, intent on making it to the door without getting stopped by anyone stupid enough to try and network with him. He’s almost there, when he hears a footsteps coming down the stairs, and a familiar voice saying, “I told you we’d find your people Sam! Have fun!” and Mark Bryant almost literally crashes into him.

“Watch the fuck where you’re going!” Damien snarls, jerking back and holding the hand holding his beer cup over his shoulder where it can’t do any damage. Then he realises who he’s talking to, and anything else he was going to say falls to the wayside.  

“Shit, I am so sorry, didn’t see you there, obviously, how can I…Rob?” Mark fucking Bryant says.

Damien stiffens slightly at the name. Great. Only a few hours later and that little lie’s come back and bite him in the ass. He waits for the penny to finally drop, but instead Mark squints at him, a smile spreading across his face, “It is you, isn’t it? You were playing violin outside of a coffee shop earlier today. I didn’t think I’d see you here!”

“That goes both ways,” Damien says. What the hell is Mark Bryant of all people doing at a party held by Rose’s friends? Half of Rose’s friends think that anyone who signs to a major label are sell outs. “What are you doing here?”

“Got dragged by my sister,” Mark says. He leans companionably against the wall that Damien realises he’s still half pressed himself against. “And yourself?”

“Dragged by a friend.”   

Mark laughs, “Looks like we’re in the same boat; made to socialise against our will. I am glad that I ran into you, though. I was worried that slice of time by the coffee shop would be the first and last time I got to talk to you.”

“I still have your number on the back of my hand.” Not that he’s put it into his phone. Damien isn’t that desperate.

“No guarantee you would actually use it,” Mark says. “For all I knew that would just be another lost connection on Craigslist. Dear dark and handsome, you were playing violin outside of a pretentious coffee shop. I was late to a band meeting. You blew my mind with your musical talent and your sarcasm. Please call me.”

Despite himself, Damien ends up smiling up at Mark. There’s not much difference between their heights, but Damien spends most of his time around Mark wearing lifts, so the two or so inches between them feels like a foot.

“What do I call you? Dear Can’t tell the time?”

What is he doing? He should be disengaging, before Mark realises who he is, and the two of them start arguing. It never seems to matter what Damien does. Every time he and Mark spend enough time in the same room, sparks fly. Never the good kind. Never the kind Damien wants.

“Hey,” Mark protests. “It’s not my fault that your music enthralled me to the point of being unable to even think about moving.”

“You’re laying it on thick,” Damien tells him. He leans back against the wall, arms crossing. Holding the loosely around the rim with the tips of his fingers. “What do you want?”

“I can’t just hang out with my new friend?”

“Is that what I am?”

Friends. Him and Bryant. The sun will be rising in the west tomorrow.

Mark just smiles, looking a little like a kicked puppy with those huge brown eyes of his. “I was hoping that you would be.”

Damien isn’t quite fast enough to hide the surprised look that crosses his face. Mark laughs, continuing, “even spoiled celebrities like me can have friends right?”

“Jesus, stop it. If you beg anymore you’ll make me feel bad. Yes, Mark. I guess I’m your friend.”

“Great.” Mark’s smile could light up a room. “So new, friend are you going to show me where they keep the beer in this place or am I going to have to hunt it down myself?

For the first time at a party, Damien completely loses track of time. It’s too easy to get sucked into Mark’s presence. The cheesy pop is more bearable when Mark’s humming along to the lyrics. The dim blue lighting gives the place a sense of safety, or anonymity. While Mark goes through the cheap beer like it’s water, he doesn’t make a comment when Damien sticks to his single cup for the whole night.

Later, he won’t remember what they talked about. All Damien will remember is the warm feeling in his chest at the sight of Mark’s smile. He didn’t even have to lie to see it.  

The next time Damien checks his phone, it’s past 2 am and he has a text from Rose telling him that she left the party almost an hour and a half ago.

“Oops,” Mark says, his own phone dangling from his fingers. “Didn’t mean to monopolise you. Sorry.”

Damien rolls his eyes, “Did you see me complaining?”

“Well, no. But I’m sure that this was half about networking for you too. And sorry to disappoint, but any rumours you heard about me having connections to major labels were just that.”

Curious, leaning towards Mark. “Do you really think that’s why I spent the whole night with you?”

“Well it was either that or you’re a superfan. And that’s gotten to be less likely considering you spent half an hour telling me that half of my songs suck. Of course there’s always the third reason but…”

“What’s the third reason?” Damien asks. He wonders if this is when the house of cards will topple. If this is the moment that Mark will reveal that he knew who Damien was from the start, and was just waiting for Damien to admit to the lie. It’s thoughts like this that make Rose call him paranoid.

Mark leans in towards him, something dark and promising in his gaze and Damien feels an answering twist in his stomach. “The third reason, is that you’re into me and have been waiting all night for the two of us to get out of here and go somewhere more private.”

Damien tilts his head, taking in with new eyes how close the two of them are. The flush on Mark’s cheeks that he’d contributed to be the alcohol but might be something entirely different.

Damien lets out a breath. “Yeah, okay.” He says. Why not? Everything about this night has gone the opposite of what Damien has expected. Why not this too? Why not check off yet another idle fantasy that Damien’s had about Mark Bryant?

Mark grins like he’s won something. He twines his fingers around Damien’s, tugging him to forwards out of the party. There’s a ringing in the back of Damien’s head. This is a bad idea, this is going to fall apart into pieces in the morning.

The rest of Damien doesn’t care.

* * *

 

 

**The Scoop** @TheScoopMagazine  
So who’s the guy  @MarkB was spotted entering his hotel with last night? Inquiring minds wish to know!

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Come visit my tumblr!](http://bandit-writes.tumblr.com/)


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